La Flamme Noir
by Victoria Faye
Summary: Estelle has learned to live on the streets. Armand taught her the lifestyle. But parts of this new lifestyle were not what she expected. Running away, she hides in the abandoned Opera Garnier. -EOW. Entirely Leroux based. Read profile for full details.-
1. Chapter One

**CHAPTER ONE**

The night was cold and fog swirled through the streets like ghostly whispers of carriages long gone. The stars above shone like bits of shattered glass strewn across the black abyss that was the sky. A lone figure made its way through the streets, cloaked and shrouded in darkness, bare feet padding along the cobblestones. The merciless wind bit at her skin, whipping her hair about her face chilling her to the bone, urging her onward. Rubbing her hands together in an attempt to revive some feeling in them and casting a nervous glance backward she hastened her pace further until she was running with all the speed she could muster toward the only place she knew of that could offer refuge for a wretch like her on a cold winter night; that looming shadow which emanated safety and protection: the abandoned opera house.

Born into wealth, Estelle Termonde's was destined for the comfortable existence of any Parisian woman of society. She would have attended operas and played the piano. She would have been perfectly assimilated, called upon by suitors seeking her hand. She would have held teas in the sitting room of her tastefully furnished home where she would mingle with the other women, gossiping about the most recent scandals in town, never once forgetting her posture, manners, and demure façade. Estelle's life was not supposed to be what it became at the age of two.

One day Charlotte and Joseph Termonde had gone to visit a Monsieur Leon Delacroix, an old friend in Rouen, leaving their daughter with her governess, Adele, and promises to return soon with a new doll for her. She dearly loved dolls and every time her parents went away somewhere far they would bring back a doll for her.

Three days later, while Estelle was seated on the floor rolling a small ball about there came a knock on the door. Adele bustled over to the door, peaking out to see who was there. Her eyes widened with surprise and fear as she opened the door wider, revealing two gendarmes standing on the doorstep with solemn looks on their faces. Estelle was much too young to understand what was going on, but she knew that something was wrong when she saw her governess lay a hand over her mouth in horror. There had been an unfortunate mishap with the carriage the gendarmes had told her. Estelle's parents would not return.

She was left with nothing. As a child and a woman, whose parents did not leave a will, all property was seized by the government and she was placed in the care of an orphanage in a particularly crime-ridden, dangerous area of Paris, being that the only other family she had could not support another child in addition to their twelve.

Growing up in the orphanage left her on her own for most of her life, and, eventually, at the age of fourteen, she ran away from that horrid place, only to realize that life on the streets would be more difficult that she had ever imagined. Her years in the orphanage had hardened her, but did not prepare her for life in the slums of Paris.

She was starving on her own, for any time she attempted to steal something from the market she would be caught and had to run to save herself. She was not made for life on the streets. She had a kind heart, and one could not afford such a thing when living on the streets and fending for oneself. Estelle knew she would not survive the winter if she did not figure something out quickly. It was then that she met Armand. Somewhere between his sharp wit, his dazzling smile, and his irresistible charm, Estelle fell in love with him. Yes, Armand Beauvais had been exactly what she needed.

Running up the steps, she stood staring at the towering structure before her with her mouth agape. The opera house had been abandoned for three years, a sparkling gem left to dull and be forgotten, a shell of the glory it used to be. The opening night of Don Juan Triumphant had been the last time the Paris Opera House had any life inside its walls. The Opera Ghost had frightened away any thoughts of restoration, especially after the announcement of his death had been run in the _Epoque_.

The public was extremely superstitious and, after the wrath of the Ghost had been seen, they did not want to anger him again, despite (or perhaps because of) the fact that he was dead. Many believed that if the Ghost was able to produce such disastrous results from the confines of a human body, the havoc he could wreak upon them when the man became a ghost in every sense of the word was far too much for the superstitious public to risk.

There was simply no hope for the opera house to ever be rebuilt, for even if an ambitious manager decided to make an attempt at reopening it, who would dare become a patron for a haunted opera house, knowing his money would be wasted after the performances sold nearly no seats? No, the grand Paris Opera House was no more.

Peering in through the cracks in the boards covering the doorway, Estelle could not make out much, as the moonlight shining through the cracks in the boards over the windows only shed a small amount of light, giving her glimpses of the marble floor, thick with dust. Wedging her dirty hands into a crack and curling her fingers around the edge of a board she pulled back with all her might. She was weak, and it took a lot of pulling to remove the board, but finally, it gave a moan of protest, and after a few tugs she was able to dislodge it. Two more boards followed suit until she had finally created a hole big enough to slip her slender body through. Feeling like she was being pulled backward and hearing a tearing sound, she looked down and realized the hem of her frock was snagged on a piece of the jagged wood. Tugging on the material, she was able to disentangle it from the board, but ripped part of her dress in her haste.

_Oh, no matter. I am a broken, homeless girl and hiding in an abandoned opera house. A tear in my skirt is not of importance anymore._

The air inside the abandoned opera house was laden with dust and soot, and, after allowing her eyes to adjust to the darkness, Estelle saw that the rest of the Garnier was just as dirty. Still, even dilapidated and neglected, dusty and grimy, the high ceilings and statues were enough to make her jaw drop in awe of its grandeur.

Trailing her hand along the banister she made her way up the staircase where, on the landing, she almost chuckled at the irony of her situation. She was a street urchin, standing atop the grand staircase of what was once one of the most beautiful buildings in Paris. Shaking her head, knowing circumstances like these were the only times she would feel powerful, she turned around and began walking up the left fork in the staircase, making her way down the darkened hallway in search of a nook in which to nest.


	2. Chapter Two

**CHAPTER TWO**

Blowing into her cupped hands in an effort to keep warm Estelle glanced around the room she had settled in. It was quite beautiful and appeared to be untouched by the fire, although all the furniture was coated in a thin layer of dust. The walls were covered in a reddish brown floral wallpaper, faded with at the edges from age and neglect. A pink velvet chaise with a mahogany frame stood against a wall next to a changing screen by the doors. Against the opposite wall was a small vanity, crowded with old rouge and powder, bottles of perfume, and various fans and masques. On the far wall a large mirror stood tall and proud. A layer of dust obscured most of the glass, but it could not block out the shine of the intricate gilded frame. The room was filled with lavish items she could have only dreamed of owning. The things she sat amongst in that room were more expensive than she had ever seen because she had been out on the streets for as long as she could remember, and she knew better than to think she would ever possess anything that beautiful.

_Street urchins like myself will never own fine things. I suppose I would do well to remember that.._

Standing up and stretching her aching legs, Estelle walked over the the mirror and swiped her hand over the surface. A cloud of dust billowed off of it, making her cough lightly in an attempt to clear her lungs. Bringing her eyes up to meet her reflection she was met with a scrawny little wisp of a girl in a torn and faded gray frock. Her dirty black hair was knotted and glistening with grease, the light curls hanging limply to her thin waist. She saw tired green eyes rimmed in red from the tears that threatened to spill earlier that night. Her arms hung loosely at her sides, thin and caked with dirt, just as her legs were, partially revealed because of the tear she received in her skirt on her way into the opera house. Sweeping her eyes back up to her face, she turned away from the mirror in disgust. Then came familiar pricking in her eyes. Estelle pulled her sleeve down over her hand and reached up to rub the tears away, scolding herself for being so weak, attempting to regain her composure.

It was two years ago when she ran away from that wretched orphanage. Thrust into the harsh lifestyle of the streets, she was stunned at the evils she witnessed. After only a little over a month of living alone and realizing she would waste away by herself, she met Armand. With blue eyes and thick, dark hair, Armand was handsome, charismatic, and very kind to her. He taught her the streets she should avoid late at night and which restaurants did not lock the back door of the kitchen at night. After a few weeks he even agreed to let her stay with him in the camp he built beneath the bridge along the Seine. Estelle had never known such kindness before, and as was nearly inevitable, she fell in love with him. It felt nice to be cared for.

It was only a few more months, though, before Armand started to change. He began getting controlling and would become upset when she went somewhere without telling him. He began keeping her by his side at all times, not allowing her to leave unless it was to sleep or go somewhere on an errand for him. One night, Estelle had already retired, when everything in her life changed.

"Estelle, get up," Armand hissed, nudging her in the side with the tip of his shoe.

Sleeping on the floor, Estelle stirred and sat up, giving him a questioning and disoriented look, wondering what had possessed him to wake her in the middle of the night. Looking around her she noticed Armand had a strange man with him.

"What is it?" She asked, "Who is this?"

"This is Monsieur Letrack. He is interested in spending the night with you, and he is willing to pay me if I allow you to go with him. You will accept his offer stay with him at his hotel tonight and come back here in the morning when he is finished with you," Armand told her, giving her a look that told her not to refuse.

"I should think you have gone completely mad! I will do nothing of the sort," She snapped, but received the first in a long line of smacks across the face, the sound echoing over the water. Her mouth fell open in shock. She could not believe he had actually struck her. Armand had been waning, yes, but she never imagined he would put hands on her.

"You know as well as I that we need the money, Estelle. Curse you for being so selfish. But very well, I shall make you a new offer. I will allow you to stay with me permanently, even when I relocate. Think of it, no worrying where you are sleeping at night. I will give you food and shelter, but you must pay me back and we both know that a girl like you cannot get a proper job," Armand retorted, appealing to her desire for stability and care. Estelle, hurt and scared, agreed.

That was the most frightening night of her life. Antoine Letrack was a married man, as one could see by the glistening gold ring on his fat finger. Estelle imagined his wife was not exciting enough for him and he decided it was time to seek comfort elsewhere. Perhaps, though, his wife was simply not able to tolerate his abusive tendencies and Letrack needed to release his violent energies, choosing a whore from the streets whom no one would care about. Antoine scratched her and slapped her as he took her; he even called her names. She had never been more afraid or upset before. At that moment, not only did she not have a penny to her name, she was robbed of the only thing that she still had: her purity. The following morning Estelle lifter her aching and bruised body off of the floor, quickly slipped her dress back on, and scurried out of the hotel room, leaving a sleeping Antoine Letrack still in bed. Upon arriving back to the camp, Estelle kept her head down in shame, her eyes averted from Armand's smug smiles.

Men began showing up more and more after that fateful night, and Armand would threaten to throw her back out on the streets if she did not accept their offers, and they both knew that she would not last long without his help. Estelle hated being owned and every night she lost more and more of her will to live. She was worthless. Used and beaten, she did not want to live that tortured existence any longer, but she would not allow him to defeat her. Gathering together the few articles of clothing she possessed, Estelle was almost free when felt an iron grip on her shoulders, spinning her around to look into the menacing blue eyes of the man who had tortured her for months.

"Let me go, Armand," Estelle said, putting on the bravest face she could manage and preparing herself for the blow she was sure would follow. Instead, upon opening her eyes, she was greeted with a sight far worse than a blow: Armand was smiling down at her, a glint in his eyes that frightened her out of her wits. This was not a violent glint, nor was it angry or patronizing as it had been before. This was a look she had only seen in her 'customers'.

"You will stay here. You know that I own you, Estelle. You surrendered all rights to your body the night you agreed to go with Letrack. You are mine," He hissed, his words dripping with venom, "And I think it's time that I enjoyed the product I have been selling. Tonight, Estelle, you will be mine in ways you have never imagined."

Before she could get away, he was on top of her, covering her mouth with his hand so her screams would not be heard. She was writhing beneath him, attempting to get away, but he was too strong for her, overpowering her with ease. With her wrists pinned above her head in one of his large hands and her eyes clamped shut tightly she heard an odd noise.

Wrenching her eyes open she realized that sound was Armand unsheathing a small dagger from his boot. Stricken with panic all anew Estelle froze. She was not expecting Armand to go so far as to kill her. Clearly her sudden stillness meant the dagger was effective and served its purpose of keeping her compliant. Seemingly satisfied, Armand released Estelle's wrist with a feral grin and slowly set the knife aside, and began kissing her neck. The tears were welling up in her eyes but she would not allow herself to weep. She would not give him the pleasure of knowing he had destroyed her.

Letting her head loll to the side in defeat her eyes widened, seeing what was possibly her only hope for escape. Just to her right she spotted the small fire they had going that night, and slowly reaching over to it, she managed to pick out a stick jutting out, the end glowing hot with red embers. Gathering all her strength and courage she managed to catch him off guard and push him off of her as she swung her arm back, swiping the stick at his face as hard as she could. Yelling out in pain, he fell backward, clawing at his face, and she saw this as her chance to run.

And run she did. Estelle ran and ran, until she could run no more. She took so many twists and turns that she could not be sure if he had come after her or not. Finally, she had come up with a place to go; the very opera house from which she was recounting her tale.

Falling to her knees, Estelle finally let the sobs come, producing sounds she had been holding in since that first night one year ago. Sounds of such sorrow issued from her mouth that she was not sure if they belonged to her anymore. Eventually, her eyes became heavy with the effort and her head began to pound. She was exhausted and, laying down onto the floor, she let the darkness overtake her, bringing her peace for the first night in years.


	3. Chapter Three

**CHAPTER THREE**

The years had not been kind to the Opera Ghost. That specter that hid in the shadows had retreated to his safe haven beneath the opera house, swearing to never surface again. His worst fears had become reality on the opening night of his Don Juan Triumphant. He had lost everything: his opera house, his music, and Christine. He saw his entire life go up in flames just like the theater of his beautiful opera house, and he could do nothing except watch. That is what he had done his entire life, watched. He was a constant spectator, often meddling in affairs and moving people around like chess pieces, then watching the games run their course with a satisfying feeling of power. But oh, how the mighty fall and the Phantom had certainly fallen. His twisted games had ruined everything.

_Oh, Christine. _

Burying his head in his hands, the Phantom took a seat on his black velvet throne. Heaving a sigh, he thought about what he could do. He was restless. Complete isolation had certainly taken its toll on him. With his person and home in disarray, the infamous Opera Ghost had turned into a complete recluse, even more than he had been before.

Since the day she left him, his beloved organ had been gathering dust. He had not written anything in years. He vowed he would not. His Angel was gone, and no amount of music would bring her back like it used to. It was once that he would play and he could enchant her again, entice her to stay with him, bewitch her to believe that she loved him. The music was not his to play anymore. Any musical note was a betrayal. She was his music, and playing without her by his side was the only sin he would ever recognize. His life, his love; it was all gone with that simpering fool of a boy. No, the only song he ever planned on writing again would be his requiem.

_Why bother yourself with making a requiem? _

_Because someone will venture down here again one day, and they will find the last piece of my music. Perhaps somehow she will hear it and remember me._

_Nobody will hear it; nobody will even find it, and she does not want to remember you. She did not even come back, when she promised she would! She promised to bury you with the ring, but she never did!_

_I didn't expect her to come.._

Shaking off those thoughts, he thought about his reasons for announcing his death to being with. It was an advantageous decision made in self-preservation, as his decisions almost always were. After his death was proclaimed in the _Epoque _he was finally free from lurking and looking over his shoulder for fear that someone would find him. He knew if he was believed living then people would never leave him be. Men would come in hopes of capturing the Phantom of the Opera they had all heard so much about, knowing the large price on his head. By making the public believe he was dead, he could finally have peace. He would be allowed to live out the rest of his miserable days in solitude and security.

Yet, the Phantom was not pleased. The opera house was his life's work. He had spent almost every waking hour thinking about either his beloved Christine or how to better the opera house. He was devoted to making the Paris Opera House shine with glory, known throughout the world as Europe's finest house of music. But his efforts had all gone to waste, for instead he had, with his own hands, ruined everything he had worked to perfect. He had singlehandedly destroyed the opera house forever, the only thing that had always been there for him, to shelter him from the bitter coldness of the world.

In the Paris Opera House, he was king. He was feared, respected, paid heed to. Those foolish ballet rats would wander through the hallways in the dark of the night with darting eyes and heart rates that soared to unimaginable heights. They thought the Opera Ghost would swoop down upon them and strangle them with his lasso, ending their ever promising careers. The stagehands would take shifts in pairs, afraid to walk the flies alone, lest they fall victim to the Phantom's merciless games. All the stagehands but one, of course, but he had been dealt with accordingly. He had them all in the palm of his hand. Then came Christine.

His beautiful Christine, just a child. A small child, so naïve and loving. He had not meant to manipulate her. It was never his intention to toy with her innocent mind. He still suppressed shudders of disgust at the thought of how he tainted her. But in the beginning he had only just wanted to help her.

She was lonely and unhappy, like him. Hearing her cry out every night for the Angel of Music drove him to the brink of his sanity. Such a beautiful child should never cry. He could not bear to see her in such agony, so one day, before he knew what he was doing, he called out to her.

"_Do not cry, my child,_" He whispered to her, throwing his voice so it whispered in her ear. Bolting upright, the little girl looked around, but upon seeing nothing became afraid.

"Hello? Is someone there?" She called out to the darkness, her voice shaking with fear, tinged with confusion and sorrow.

"_You called for me, little one. I have come to you. I am your Angel of Music._"

From that day forward, the relationship grew. A fragile friendship was formed, a bond that he had yearned for since childhood, when he was just a child like her, crying out in the night for someone to help him. He became her protector, for all the times he was unprotected, and also for all the times he had done wrong. She was his redeemer.

As the years drew on, though, Christine had been getting older. At one point, he could not deny that she had become a beautiful young woman. From an awkward and tiny duckling, his little Christine had blossomed into a graceful and beautiful swan. With alabaster skin, sparkling blue eyes, and flowing golden curls, she was radiant.

He knew she was not for him, though. He was a monster, a beast. He was sent from the Devil himself, but to Christine, he was the Angel of Music. He was her Angel. And, oh, the way she spoke to him. He heard such kindness and admiration in her voice. He thought perhaps she was just the person to see past his appearance. It was then that he decided he would try one last time to be happy.

The pure feelings he held for Christine soon spiraled out of control into a hurricane of obsession and desire upon the entrance of that blasted boy. Raoul de Chagny had ruined everything. The tentatively cultivated relationship between Christine and her Angel had been thrown into a frenzy. He knew he had to reveal himself to her quickly, to make her love him as a man, not an angel or a ghost, but it had all went wrong. He had lied to her and the boy came just in time to show her the comfort he tore from her. Yes, the boy had wooed Christine with ease and the Phantom came to realize that there was nothing he could do to keep his dear Christine with him. The lonely being watched Christine slip out of his grasp day by day and, in the end, he was left with but a memory of her beautiful face, imprinted on his mind forever.

Standing up from his seat on the throne, the Opera Ghost paced. Anxiously running his hand through his knotted and dirty hair, he stood up and grabbed his cloak from the floor. Sweeping it over his shoulders he decided it was time to go back up to see what had really become of his opera house since it had been abandoned.

He needed to see something beside the inside of that godforsaken underground hole he had been confined to for three years. Not that it mattered since Christine was gone, seeing as nothing mattered anymore, but his health was dwindling quickly. More and more of his hair was falling out from lack of fresh air. He used to go up to the roof often to think, to get himself out of the dank cellars, but since that night he gave up on himself. But it was not his declining health that had compelled the Ghost to ascend that day, it was simply something inside of him that propelled him up to the surface.

Before he knew it, he was navigating the familiar passageways he knew so very well to be the way to Christine's dressing room. He had meant to go elsewhere but it seemed his subconscious had other plans, dragging him to look at the shell of his happiness. Upon arriving at the two-way mirror that allowed him to see into her room, he saw that the glass was coated with a thick layer of dust and cobwebs stretched across the corners of the frame. Bracing himself for the sight he knew would rip open old wounds and refresh his pain, he reached out an ungloved hand and wiped off a large track of dust. The sight before him stunned him more than anything had in a very long time. Face down in the middle of Christine's room lay a wiry but womanish figure, dirty, disheveled, and seemingly unconscious.

_How dare she! Who is this wench? The insolence!_

The first spark of emotion in years had lit up in his stomach, spreading throughout his entire body. He had been numb since Christine left him, but at that moment, his stomach churned with anger at the little street urchin. Reaching for his lasso, he realized that he did not have it with him. He had not anticipated something like that. He was not the Opera Ghost anymore. He was just a man; a broken corpse, rotting in the cellars. The desire to revert to his old games had struck him rather hard, and he felt the first scrap of his old self peeking out from beneath the layers of dust that covered him, much like they had covered his opera house.

_Perhaps it is time to remind this rat whose opera house she is in._

With a flourish of his cloak, he turned down the passageway and started back down to his lair with a purpose; there were many preparations to be made.


	4. Chapter Four

**CHAPTER FOUR**

Bleary eyed and with a pounding headache, Estelle woke up from her tear-induced slumber. Gazing about her, she started, not sure where she was. Recounting last night's events she remembered herself to be in the Opera Garnier. Pushing herself up from the floor she was splayed out upon, Estelle rubbed at her eyes and smoothed down her matted hair.

Standing up, she decided it was time to see what else was left untouched by the flames that had consumed the Paris Opera House on that fateful night. Upon leaving her room she realized that she had no idea where to go, so she simply settled on wandering around until she found something of interest.

Making her way through the musty hallways, Estelle came to realize that the innermost parts of the opera house had been spared, but were rather uninteresting, although as beautifully decorated as she expected them to be. She decided that it was time to see the damage inflicted upon the main attraction of the opera house: the theater.

As she entered the theater, her breath caught in her throat. The entire space was charred. Soot crawled up the walls like menacing, black flames swallowing the theater, and standing inside it made her feel as if the flames were engulfing her, grabbing her in their clutches and devouring her. Shuddering, she walked further inside, surveying the rest of the damage. Rubble was scattered across the floor. The seats on the ground level were burned, metal skeletons of the luxurious seats they were. The once thick, red stage curtain was dark with soot and burned in various places. The stage itself, being made of wood, looked like a bed of ashes, though still standing. Estelle imagined that anyone who attempted to walk on it would fall through after only a few steps onto the surface. Looking up at the vaulted ceiling, she let out a gasp of shock. There was a gaping hole in the middle of it, where the chandelier was, no doubt, and then a large track of destruction where it was pulled down and onto the hysterical crowd below. The room must have looked a great deal like the Inferno to those people, and it frightened Estelle to even think about how they must have felt looking up and seeing Death, in the form of a crystal chandelier, plummeting down upon them.

With a shake of her head to clear the disturbing images, she turned to leave, but something caught her eye. Looking up to one of the boxes, she saw the rustle of the small curtain inside it. A shock of adrenaline ran through Estelle as she suddenly felt very frightened. Looking around rapidly, she thought she felt the room grow colder, as if a sudden chill swept through it, but as quickly as it came, it was gone. Her heart was pounding in her ears and her breathing was labored. She felt like a cornered animal.

_I must get a hold of myself. I am trembling like a leaf over what is probably nothing... Oh, but something just feels so wrong!_

Normally she would not have reacted so dramatically to what could have been something as small as a draft shifting a curtain, but with a furious and vengeful Armand surely looking for her, and being that she was hiding in an abandoned building that was rumored to be haunted, she panicked.

It was then that she realized that she had simply been standing there like a fool, instead of running. Rounding on her heel, she began to run toward the doors she had entered from. Just as she reached them though, the doors slammed shut. She was certain her eyes widened to the size of dinner plates. All thoughts of Armand and rational explanations for the rustling curtain fled her mind as she stood there, too shocked to move. A shiver crawled down the back of her neck as she commanded her legs to run, to find another exit. She attempted to make sense of the situation and think rationally, but only one thought played in her mind:

_It's the ghost!_

Watching the little wretch stand shocked, the Ghost felt empowered like he had not in years. He had her exactly where he wanted her, and it was time to start the show. Hoping he still remembered how to do his next trick, he prepared himself. Gathering his vocal strength, the Ghost threw his voice to the other side of the room in an otherworldly hiss that could shake the foundation of even the most collected of people.

"_Well, this is a surprise._"

With a satisfied smirk he watched the girl's breath cut short, her head darting from side to side, trapped. Throwing his voice to a far corner, he let his voice gain more venom.

"_It seems I have caught a mouse in my claws._"

Again, he threw his voice, but so it was directly behind her.

"_I thought no person could be foolish enough to enter my opera house again._"

She spun around, eyes wild. Throwing his voice to her ear, he whispered with the softness of a lover's caress.

"_It appears I was wrong, my little mouse._"

She was frozen to the spot, her chest heaving, the eerie silence broken only by her labored breaths. With an omnipresent dark chuckle the Phantom watched as the girl shot out of the theater faster than he had seen a person run before. With a flourish of his cloak, he made his way to the foyer for the final phase of his game.

Throwing open the doors to the theater, Estelle ran. Bounding down the stairs, she slipped on the last one, sliding across the marble floor on her knees. Scrambling onto her feet she stood up and continued running through the foyer, but just as she reached the exit, she saw something that made her blood run cold. Hanging in front of the doors was a noose, a promise of what was to come.

As she began to back away, a shadow started creeping up from the floor behind her. Plastered onto the door, she could see the shadow grow taller and taller, rising in the shape of a cloaked figure. Estelle was sure her heart had stopped right then and there. A lasso in front of her, a ghost in back, she was left with nowhere to run. Gathering up all remnants of her courage, she turned, eyes glued to the ground for fear of what she would find.

Her eyes fell upon black polished shoes. Traveling slowly up the looming figure she saw a finely tailored black suit, with a white shirt underneath, along with a black waistcoat. Draping over the figure's shoulders was a black cloak with a black, silk lining. Her eyes continued their upward journey until she reached a black cravat and, inching her eyes upward, her gaze landed on a glowing white mask with fire burning in its eyes. Those eyes. Burning gold, like a cat. They blazed like flames, but held no warmth. And that mask, frozen in a blank stare, it sent shivers down her spine.

"Hello, mouse," He cooed mockingly, filled with dark amusement at his little game. Then the noose was around her neck. Estelle was frozen. She could not fight, she was in a state of shock. She felt him tightening the rope, and all the while she just stared at him, wide eyed. She was just letting it all happen, not even trying to fight back. All at once, though, she snapped out of her trance.

_My God, I don't want to die!_

Kicking and flailing, she clawed at her neck, her eyes bulging at the pressure cutting off her air supply completely. She was beginning to feel lightheaded and she knew it wouldn't be long until the blackness came.

The Phantom loved that part. The part where the game ended and it became very real. The part where he held life in his hands and people were at his mercy. The part where he won. After all the times he had been abused and hurt, he wanted to be the one running the show, and killing gave him such a powerful sense of satisfaction. If God could curse him with with such a face, taking away all his control over his own life, then he would control the lives of others. Let God know that the Ghost has power, as well.

Watching as she flailed and scratched at her neck trying to loosen the rope, he pulled tighter. Every so often he would loosen his grip, allowing the tiniest breath of air to seep into her lungs before he would pull the rope taut again. He never intended on strangling her. No, snapping her neck would be much more simple for him, also much cleaner. That was quick, though. He could not very well snap her neck right away. He needed to dangle life before her, give her hope. Then when he tired of the game he would, with a flick of his wrist, finish her off. Suddenly though, she went limp.

_Damn. You let her faint. _

_It was not my fault. The rat is just weak. _

_What do you propose to do?_

_I suppose I could leave her, but then, what fun is that? I surely cannot recreate the entire encounter again, it will simply not have the same effect. It appears the little wench must live until a later date. _

_So you are willing to let all of your work go to waste? _

_I could take her down with me. Yes, I think I will. She could be of some use to me. _

Having settled the issue, he untied the noose from around her neck, his burning eyes lingering on the raised, red welt it had left in its wake. That would not be a meeting she would easily forget. Slinging her body easily over his shoulder, he began his descent to the underground lake.


	5. Chapter Five

**CHAPTER FIVE**

Fading in and out of consciousness, Estelle was plagued with terrors. Writhing, she fought off the frightening images in her head and tried to settle down. Suddenly, shooting into a sitting position, she remembered everything. Panicking, she realized that she had been placed on a cold, stone floor. Placing a hand on her neck, she winced in pain at the bruised skin. She began looking for an exit to get away from who she knew had brought her here, but she was soon captivated and noticed that she was in the most interesting place she had seen in her life.

She was in what seemed to be a cellar of sorts. Certain doorways, which she assumed were other rooms, were blocked off by dark curtains. The floor was raised fairly up on very large a concrete foundation because she could see steps snaking down the side wall down into what appeared to be an underground lake of dark green with mist dancing across the surface. The water lapped against a portcullis at the far end. Candles were placed throughout, shedding meager light onto the space. The place was almost bare. There was an old wooden chair standing in front of a small, wooden desk against the far wall. A large black, velvet throne was placed close to another wall, its intricate metal designs that inspired awe in her with its majesty. Her eyes sweeping around the room, they landed on the focal point of the room which was, by far, the most stunning thing Estelle had ever been in the presence of. A beautiful organ, racked with shining pipes and gleaming ivory keys; it was almost ethereal. Just as she began to make her way to get a closer look at the magnificent instrument a cold voice snapped her out of her reverie and reminded her of the horrible situation she was in.

"Touch nothing!" The voice boomed, chilling her to the bone.

Spinning around quickly, she turned fearfully to face the man she knew the voice belonged to. Dressed as immaculately as ever, the Ghost strode over to where Estelle was standing. Grabbing her wrist painfully, he dragged her over to the desk and pulled out the wooden chair into which he unceremoniously deposited her.

"You will sit and listen to my instructions, and you will say nothing until I have finished," He commanded, "Am I understood?"

Almost afraid of what he would do to her if she made any sudden movements or spoke at all, she nodded shakily.

"Perfect. You will stay here, as a servant of sorts. I will tell you when I need something to be done, and you will acquiesce to my command, or I will simply dispose of you," He calmly explained, staring at her with steely eyes of gold.

She regarded him disbelievingly, with eyes as wide as saucers. She knew of his horrible past, and she was well aware of the fact that he would have no qualms about sending her to the same fate as he had countless others.

_Now he wants to make me his personal handmaid... He tried to kill me, and suddenly he wants me to dust his organ?_

"Monsieur, you cannot be serious," She said, her voice hushed with fear and hoarse in the wake of the Phantom's noose.

"I assure you, I am quite serious," He replied, "Up until a few hours ago I was prepared to end your life, but upon your fainting I was left with no satisfactory alternative but to let you live. Yet I cannot very well let you continue to take up residence in my opera house, nor can I allow you to leave and alert people of my presence. You are to stay here, and you will make yourself useful."

She did not know how to reply, so she simply sat, staring dumbly at him, her thoughts racing.

_He is the Opera Ghost! The Opera Ghost is holding me prisoner in his home. One wrong move and I will be dead. What exactly does he __expect__ of me?_

"Excuse me, monsieur, but I have a question," She tentatively called to his retreating back, as he had grown weary of her company quite quickly.

"Well, out with it, girl," He called back impatiently, still walking away.

"What sorts of things are you intending for me to do?" She asked timidly. Halting in this tracks, he turned on his heel to face her.

"This is not an ordinary home, as I am quite sure you can see. As such, the standard duties for a servant will be altered accordingly. I expect you to keep the rooms neat and orderly, but do not poke your nose into places it does not belong. I will also need some supplies from outside. I will give you money, and you will go and purchase the items I have requested. If you do not return here promptly, I will find you and deal with you then. From here forward, you will be given information when I see fit."

Before seeing her nod her head in understanding, he turned and began walking away once more. After he had disappeared into a room behind a thick curtain, she slumped forward in the chair and buried her head in her hands.

_What have I gotten myself into now? I should have never come here. I am a stupid girl. I knew this was place was rumored to still be the Opera Ghost's domain, and I went to it for shelter and safety? I am nothing but a fool._

Inside his bedroom, the Phantom sat down on a small, wooden chair, intent on getting some simple relaxation, but that girl would not leave him be. His mind was reeling.

_Save for the bloodthirsty mob after Don Juan Triumphant, I have had nobody in my home since... Christine. Three years I have gone undisturbed, and now this urchin comes into my life, ruining my peace. _

_You should have just killed her in the beginning!_

_No matter. I have warned her that I would dispose of her if the need arose. I will be rid of her soon enough. She will not last very long._

Laying his thoughts to rest, he exhaled loudly, exhausted with all the events that had taken place that day. He almost never slept, but emotional stress of this magnitude had not been imposed on him since the night his Angel left him to die like the lonely, old ghost that he was.

Standing up, the Opera Ghost stumbled over to his coffin and laid down inside, shutting his eyes against the warm glow of the candles. Pure and calming darkness wrapped around his mind, setting him at ease. As his mind drifted, he was lulled further and further into a drained slumber. All conscious thought was vanishing, being pulled away by the receding waves of sleep.

No sooner than his dreams began, though, they turned to Christine. He could not drive out from his mind the sound of her voice when she spoke to him, her voice ringing with an intensity that burned him to the core. He still remembered the way her beautiful, blue eyes shone with tears when she looked at him that night, her forehead bleeding, wrists bound. His darling Christine, oh, she tried to end her life. How blind he had been. He would never forget how she allowed him to kiss her on the forehead... He ripped off his mask, and she did not scream. He had crumpled to the floor, kissing his Angel's feet, weeping with joy and gratitude. He could see it again, as if it here happening right then.

Soon the dream began spiraling out of control. All the events of the night were melded into one climactic moment, overwhelming him in his troubled sleep. Christine, his Christine, she was walking up to him, just after he had turned the scorpion, sending the water rushing into the room. The murky water was up around her waist, staining her dress. That water should never have touched her; she was too beautiful to be submerged in such filth, but he kept her in it, for he would not turn off the tap. She brought her trembling hand up to his face, and she leaned in and kissed him on the forehead, bestowing upon him the kindest gesture he had ever received, and he stood, tears falling freely from his golden eyes. His Angel had kissed him and he was content to shed his tears.

Suddenly, his dream took an unexpected turn as he felt the sharp flame of pain ignite in his side. Looking down, he saw a river of black blood oozing from the wound, snaking like smoke through the green water below. Staring in shock, he saw that Christine's face was cold and dry of the tears she had been crying. Her countenance was calm and set like stone as she stared into his bloodshot eyes. One hand still on his marred face, Christine's other hand was wrapped around a knife at her side, his blood sliding down the blade and falling from the tip. Bringing both her hands to his chest, she pushed. The Phantom fell back into the frigid water, sinking, sinking, sinking.

Awaking with a start, the Phantom lashed out with both arms, batting away the images and the pain of the nightmare. Looking around himself, he felt the familiar sting in his eyes, thrusting into his face the proof of his weakness. After holding back his tears for three long years, he hunched over in tremors, guttural cries issuing from his mouth. And the infamous Opera Ghost wept. He wept for his Angel. He wept for the life he would never have. He wept in the only way that monsters like him could ever weep: alone.


	6. Chapter Six

**CHAPTER SIX**

Estelle had been sitting in the same chair for over an hour. She did know know what to do. Thinking she should probably try to appease him, she decided it was time to begin her basic duties. It was not as if she wanted to do so but, being that the Ghost was prone to unexpected bouts of anger and her duties had already been described to her, she thought it best not to seem incompetent by lounging in a chair, rather than doing what he asked of her. No, incompetence here could lose someone their life.

Standing up, she looked around, surveying what needed to be done and wondering where to possibly start. She decided not to go into the other rooms, lest she stumble upon an area she was not supposed to pry into. With only the main room to work on she could not come up with much to do. The room was practically bare. Generally, the place was not very dirty, it was simply slightly neglected. Finally settling on giving the area a good dusting, scrubbing the floors, and organizing a few small things to look more presentable, Estelle heaved a sigh and began to look for supplies.

After a long while of searching for a rag of some sort to dust with or a brush for the floor, she found neither. Her only options were to either ask the Phantom if he had anything of the kind or to continue on with other things and ask him about the brush and rag later. As the latter was probably safer she decided to skip the dusting and washing for now and continue on with the lesser organization. Starting with the chair she was seated upon, she stood up and gently pushed it in. The only other thing that was really in need of any organization was the small desk the chair belonged to. Looking around, she decided it would hurt no one for her to simply glance at a few things as she put them away or moved them. All over the desk there were sheets of paper strewn about, collecting dust. Leaning closer, she blew on them, moving away as the dust billowed off of them into the air. Upon closer inspection she could make out faint horizontal lines cutting across the paper, and Estelle could not help but be childishly amused.

_It's musical paper! Oh, how fascinating. I wonder if any of these have music written on them._

Rifling through the papers, she could find no notes on them. She so wished that she had found something that had been written on, but then realized something.

_What was I going to do with papers that had been written on already? I can't even read music._

Laughing at herself, Estelle put the papers back down on the desk down in a neat stack. Looking for a better place to put them, she pulled out a small, shallow drawer and gasped at what she saw inside: a wilted, dead rose that looked like it was formerly a deep red. There was a black, silk ribbon tied around the stem, hanging limp and faded. It was beautiful, even in death.

Pulling the rose out of the drawer, being very careful not to let the fragile flower crumble or break, she looked for a place to put it. Deciding the top of the desk would be the only place she could put it for now, she gently lowered the flower onto it. Taking the stack of papers, she slipped them into the drawer and closed it back up again.

A black inkwell sat next to a black quill, also smothered in dust. The things all looked as though they had gone untouched for years. Peering into the inkwell, she saw that the ink had long since dried up, proving that it had not been used for a very long time. Pulling the drawer out again, she placed both ink pot and quill inside. Shutting the drawer she frowned in dismay at such lovely things not being used.

_If I could write and had the means to I would jump at the chance. This is purely a waste._

Turning away from the desk, Estelle did one last sweep of the room and decided she had done all she could do without a rag for brush. Pulling out the chair again, she leaned forward and slumped over onto the top of the desk and made herself as comfortable as one could be in a stiff, wooden chair. It was a not a luxurious arrangement, but it served its purpose. Settling down, she shut her eyes against the faint candlelight, resting her eyes. Listening to the water lap against the stone rhythmically Estelle slipped into a soft sleep.

"What is this?" An icy voice hissed. Snapping out of her sleep, Estelle jumped up, startled. She had not realized that she fell asleep.

"I beg your pardon, monsieur?" She said uneasily, hoping she had not angered him already, but there was only so much she could do to prevent him from getting angry, and Estelle had done her part.

"I asked you what this is," He responded in a strained voice. She could tell he was trying greatly to hold in his temper for the time being.

"I apologize, but to what are you referring?" She asked shakily.

Storming up to the small desk by the organ, the Phantom was shaking with anger.

"This!" He bellowed, gripping the edge of the desk and pulling up with all his might, overturning the desk and all of its contents. The ink pot shattered on the floor an explosion of glass shards, the rose was crushed beneath the desk, and the musical paper tumbled out of the drawer, once again strewn about. In one swift movement he had undone all her progress and threw the space into further disarray than it was before.

With labored breathing, he rounded upon her, his white mask hiding everything save for his eyes, which raged in their sockets like sparks of flame, and the lower portion of his face, which was tense with anger. She had never seen him that way before. She had known him only to be cool and calculating, nothing like what she saw at that moment. She began panicking, frightened out of her wits by this creature before her. Could she call him a man? She didn't know how to refer to him. Man or ghost, human or beast, she couldn't say. She was caught between trying to soothe his anger and begging for her life.

"I- I- Please!" She began, "I just wanted to--"

"Just wanted to what? To rummage through my things? Pry into my life?" He seethed.

"No. I just wanted to do what you asked of me: keep the rooms orderly... In addition, monsieur, I did not pry... I did not clean the other rooms because I wanted to ask you which rooms I was not to enter," She defended, making sure not to lose her temper and raise her voice. She wanted to live, after all. Upon hearing this, the Phantom straightened up, running a hand over his cravat as if smoothing himself into sanity. The cool demeanor had slipped back into place. As quickly as the rage had come, it had receded, leaving in its wake an entirely new look of distaste. The creature was clearly unstable, subject to mood swings at the slightest provocation, she noted.

"Well, in the future, do not lay your filthy hands all over my things. From now on, you will be given a list of tasks daily, written by me. This should work to prevent further _misunderstandings_, correct?" He spoke, his voice colder than an arctic frost.

"Correct, monsieur, as you wish," She whispered. Upon hearing this, he began to stride out of the room. As if suddenly remembering something, he turned around sharply and his golden eyes bore into hers with intensity.

"Also, it would not hurt you to find some means of bathing yourself. You may be a street urchin, but you are in my home and I will not have you dragging dirt in with you."

With a final glare he strode out of the room, and back into what she assumed was his bedroom.

_I can't believe such arrogance! What have I done to deserve this? I was simply doing what he asked me to do! But I must not forget myself and act on my anger, he holds my life in his hands!_

Pacing in bedroom, the Phantom could not calm his mind. It took all the self control he possessed to refrain from wringing that girl's fragile, already bruised neck and dissolving into tears at the sight of that rose. Its once velvety, blood red petals were dry and curled, faded to an ashen violet. It pained him to see roses. But there he went, destroying everything in his path as usual. It was just so difficult to keep calm, though, for the sight of the offending flowers reminded him of the days when Christine was still his, and the dead rose was symbolism all too perfect for words.

Slowing his pacing, he thought of how he behaved in front of the girl earlier.

_Now I showed weakness in front of the girl! I ruined my facade! I am a fool! _

_It was a simple slip. You put your front back up quickly afterward._

_The damage was done..._

_Why does it matter in the least how this little urchin views you? If you intend on killing her or, at the least, keeping her here the rest of her pathetic days, then her opinion is of no gravity. _

_I simply want to keep her in her place. If she sees me as weak, she will think she may do as she pleases._

_Then keep her in her place, and forget this ever happened._

_It will not happen again._


	7. Author Update

**AUTHOR UPDATE**

**Let me start off by saying that I am so deeply sorry to those of you that have been waiting on the next installment of the story! I have just been knee deep in school work and my bursts of creativity have been unfortunately sparse. **

**But summer starts tomorrow, and I have managed to type up a small chunk of the next chapter. I do still have writers' block and that means the chapter may be less than fantastic, but I'll just put it up to get it up there and go back and rewrite it later, based on reviews, if need be. **

**So I'm going to be working on that diligently, and should have it up within the next week or two. Once again, I'm so sorry, but never fear: the story will be up and running again as soon as possible.**

**With that said I'd like to say that I will be going back to every previous chapter and tweaking grammatical errors and such so if you get the alerts for the story and notice that I've put up the same chapter ten times, just disregard that.**

**Thank you all for being so great.**


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